We poets are sad creatures

yearning for attention.

Essentially we’re children,

pointing fingers and screaming
...

“Look what they did to me”.

You are the ache
in every word that I write.
Loving you was,
in a world of wrong,
the only right.

Nowadays everyone’s damaged.

Everyone has something
weighing them down.

We’re just a sea of people

drowning with the things we never said.

I thought that you were love

and perhaps you were.

But perhaps I was wrong,

and my love was meant

for her.

Tongue tied and terrified,

we watch the world come to an end.

As stars collide,

we near our rivers bend.

We face our love with pride,

yet our hearts it still does rend.

And I would’ve cried,

had I known this would be our end.

Women are like music,
or women are like flowers.
Women are like this,
or women are like that.

The truth is,
women are far too beautifully complex
to be compared to any single thing.
So find yourself a woman that makes you happy and cherish her company.

She is exactly who and what she is meant to be, do not waste your time trying to compare her to anything else.

Love her for the woman she is.

Death isn’t some skeletal apparition
with black robes.
Death is;
a forgotten anniversary
an unread text
a soft kiss on another’s lips.

Death isn’t some grand monster.
Death is the smallest of things.